


footprints in the carpet

by FaultyParagon



Series: RWBY Fair Game [29]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Angst, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Existentialism, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I cannot believe no one else talks about this anger, I demand we focus more upon it, M/M, Qrow's Recovery, Rivalry, Semblance (RWBY), Sexual Tension, Volume 7 (RWBY), fair game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:07:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26692681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaultyParagon/pseuds/FaultyParagon
Summary: Qrow Branwen has worked with a lot of people he’d rather never meet ever again. And then, he meets Clover Ebi.“My Semblance is good fortune. Lucky you, huh?”…he’s never wanted to kill his partner outright from the start, but perhaps he can make an exception. He did promise he’d change for his nieces, after all- whether that change is good or not is a different story.-aka an exploration of the tension between Clover and Qrow which could have actually developed in the show. Eventual Fair Game.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen & Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen & Ruby Rose & Yang Xiao Long, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: RWBY Fair Game [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898392
Comments: 107
Kudos: 135





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea that's literally been on my mind since the day I binge-watched V7. I'm finally throwing the gauntlet down. Let's fight.
> 
> I'm hoping to keep each chapter <1000 words to keep it accessible for myself as things get busy.

There is something so surreal about hearing the words he has dreamed of all his life actually enter the world.

He has thought about them ever since he was a child; how would they sound like? How would the syllables ring through the air? How would it taste curling up through his throat, dancing upon the tip of his tongue, spoken into existence with all the conviction and strength in the world? Would it be robust, the words resounding into the air with power and bluster? Would it be sweet, a simple admission that instills hope and joy into others, giving him a sense of belonging which he has never truly felt?

Qrow does not know. He has never had the courage to even attempt to say them aloud. He refuses to build up false hope, only for it to be crushed into nothing with no remorse.

And yet, here he stands in a mine in the middle of Solitas, the lanterns lighting their way shimmering as they reflect off of the icy walls embedded with colourful Dust crystals; the smoke clears now that the Geist Grimm has run off, the soundness of the floor worrying him to no end thanks to the gaping maw which extends into darkness below, just a few steps past his feet; the air is thick with tension, the scent of acrid Grimm flesh lingering in the air before his nose grows too numb to discern any individual smells-

That’s a lie. He can smell one thing clearly, despite the frigid temperatures and the stuffiness of the mine and the dust in the air- cologne which lingers a little too thickly to be flattering, emanating off the figure beside him. It is cloying, almost inciting a headache- his fingers instinctively reach up to pat his left breast pocket, but they find nothing awaiting them in these new, stiff clothes which have been provided for him.

All of this is just secondary processing, however. He does not truly comprehend any of these sensations, for his eyes are locked, wide-eyed and horrified, upon the lascivious, lazy grin which pulls Clover Ebi’s lips. Green eyes crease in amusement, the words which Qrow has always dreamt of saying more than _anything_ spilling forth from his lips with absolutely no sincerity.

“My Semblance is good fortune,” the younger man replies, glancing over to Qrow. Qrow does not miss the way his eyes trail down Qrow’s body and back up again, his lips quirking further up appreciatively. With a coy wink which Qrow has never wanted, he adds, “Lucky you, huh?”

With that, Clover places one hand upon his earpiece and walks away, murmuring orders to his teammates while Qrow is left reeling from what has just transpired.

He had thought the leader of the Ace Operatives was just an overconfident, yet jaded Atlesian Huntsman- a pole up his ass, a stiffness to his gait, a cockiness which Qrow longed to cool. But this? To be looked in the eyes and told that Clover Ebi apparently has _everything Qrow has ever wanted-_

He decides that he hates Clover Ebi. He also realizes that there is a reason he has been paired up with the younger man, and for the nth time that day, Qrow wonders whether him being there was ever necessary at all, if his misfortune was so dangerous that he needed to be countered with a walking good luck charm.

His fingers reach up for his flask. They find nothing. _No, Clover. I’m not fucking lucky._


	2. Chapter 2

He spends more time reaching up to his empty, lacking breast pocket for a flask that isn’t there than reaching for Harbinger. It is thanks to that impulse- so constant, so impossible to control- that he keeps finding himself having to dodge out of the way last minute, barely able to avoid slashing claws and dripping, poisonous fangs.

How can he focus on his own fight, though? He cannot remember the last time he has felt such unadulterated _stress_ during a routine mission, every bone in his body aching even though they’ve barely had any actual combat compared to his journey through Anima with the children.

It is all Clover’s fault. Clover does not fear the Grimm, for he is clear-eyed and confident; his self-assured actions belie not a single hint of doubt, the younger man throwing himself into the fray with such little reservation that as their encounters with Grimm increase the deeper they go into the mines, Qrow’s chest begins to ache out of stress and fear for the younger. Clover constantly jumps into the line of fire, not a single care in the world as he wields his weapon (is it a _fishing rod?_ Qrow has no clear idea of what the bladed edge is even good for, but whatever it is, he has already decided to hate it on principal) against their foes. It is baffling, seeing the younger move forward with such force that Qrow can scarcely keep up.

With every step they take, Qrow feels his lips twist downwards further, his heart filling with more bitterness than he knows what to do with. Of course Clover has nothing to fear. Of course he walks with unabashed pride, knowing that everything will work out for him in the end.

Qrow’s hands within his pockets curl into fists that grow tighter and tighter, his flat-trimmed nails digging into his palm so tightly he can feel his Aura activate to heal the tiny self-inflicted marks upon his skin. He cannot help it- he cannot afford to speak out, to make an enemy out of Clover Ebi.

If the fates have their way, after all, Qrow’s luck will leave him the loser. There’s no point in tempting fate further.

More than worrying for Clover, however, what truly hurts Qrow’s heart is the fact that every single careless thing Clover does _works out_ for him. Any one of these mistakes- dodging too late, missing a weak spot, landing upon the wrong surface- would surely spell trouble for Qrow, his misfortune giving him no leniency. However, every single time Clover makes an error, it is just… fixed. Like magic.

Coincidence and bad luck cannot touch Clover Ebi, and it is _not fair_.

Qrow already knows he wants to drink after the mission. He won’t- he has made a promise to Yang and Ruby, and he intends to keep it- but the desire persists, almost painful to ignore.

Once their target, the giant Geist Grimm which has been causing such havoc in the mines, is finally vanquished, Clover walks over to Qrow, ready to help him up after a bad fall. The younger’s confident smirk has long-since shifted to pure cockiness, one thick eyebrow raised as if to announce, _So, what do you think of the Ace Ops?_

It does not matter if their coordination had been impressive; Qrow will not bend to the whims of this _brat._ He brushes away the younger man’s help, relishing for just a heartbeat in the flash of surprise and immediate distaste in the younger’s eyes. He instead walks over to Ruby; the girl is being carried by Elm, one of Clover’s teammates, upon her broad shoulders. Ruby giggles as she sees him, waving brightly. “See that, Uncle Qrow?” she announces, her grin enough to soothe away some of his heartache. “We did it!”

He sighs, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “Yeah we did, kiddo,” he smiles ruefully. “You ready to go?”

She hops off of Elm’s shoulders and grins at the strong woman, then waves goodbye to Qrow as she runs back to her own teammates. Qrow smiles back, but the moment the girls turn their backs, his exhaustion mounts once again.

Clover’s smile is no longer genial as he greets Qrow by the entrance of the clearing in which they have defeated the Geist. The amicable, if overconfident, air is gone; in its place is a coldness in his eyes, an understanding of mutual tolerance and little respect achieved without so much as a word.

”You won’t be able to work alone while in Atlas,” he says quietly, deadpan.

Qrow nods. “Then I won’t. Work’s work.”

Clover nods. “Good.”

“Good.”

And they walk side-by-side out of the mines without another word, footsteps in perfect, militaristic time, just enough distance between them to classify them as naught more than strangers- exactly as they should be.


	3. Chapter 3

He is sick and tired of Atlas. Coming here may have been the next logical choice in regards to their fight against Salem, but Qrow would be happy leaving this place and never coming back.

There is no place for him to fly, after all.

He had thought upon his arrival that he would be able to soar in the vast, never-ending blue skies of Solitas during the day, for the rain and snow have yet to hit the frigid northern continent; however, the few times he tries, he is buffeted about without remorse by arctic winds, the polar currents so powerful that even just a few feet of change in elevation causes his tiny body to be tossed this way and that. It is unforgiving and bitter, leaving him bruised and aching, his Aura always a little slow to begin the regenerative process while it is so focused upon keeping him warm despite the freezing temperatures.

Perhaps it is the lack of greenery which is getting to him, too. Or maybe it’s the rigidity of Atlas. Or maybe-

He groans, leaning his head back against the headrest, feeling the tires glide over smooth asphalt, the engine of the supply van thrumming steadily, vibrations echoing in his skull. Perhaps he just needs a vacation. That thought makes him smile. A vacation would mean more time with Yang and Ruby- more time relaxing, huddled up in blankets and not constantly having to activate his Aura in order to stay warm and mobile- more time not spent with Clover.

As if on cue, the man at his left glances over from the steering wheel. “So, Qrow,” Clover murmurs, voice genial although his expression is anything but, “how has your first week in Atlas been?”

Qrow takes a peek at the duo sitting in the back of the supply truck, casting a quick smile at Nora and Ren once they perk up, waiting for him to speak. Turning back to the front, he allows that smile to fall, his mouth fixating into a surly line. “It’s no Vale, I’ll tell you that much,” he says, keeping his tone light, his eyes staring straight ahead.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Clover snort, not a trace of a smile upon his lips. “Well, I think it’s a good thing to step out of your comfort zone,” he replies airily. “Keeps you from stagnating.”

Qrow’s frown twitches ever-downwards. “The place that has nothing but snow is supposed to keep me from stagnating?”

Clover shrugs. “If you ever want a wakeup call, I’ll happily toss you in a pile of snow. The ice might shock that-“ and he pauses, choosing his words carefully, “-cynicism out of you.”

Glowering, Qrow sinks lower into his seat. He is _so sick_ of Clover Ebi and this persona he carries of being so ever-confident, ever prepared. If Solitas was a place where he could simply fly above the caravan rather than riding within it, he would have taken the opportunity with relish- the fresh air, as frozen as it may be, would be better than sitting in this tiny cabin with Clover Ebi barely two feet away.

“Qrow? _Not_ cynical? Hah!” Nora guffaws from the backseat, her voice resonating through the tinny interior.

Clover snorts. Qrow crosses his arms and turns to look out the window. He knows that Nora means well, but as usual, those teasing words against him have come at the worst time, for Clover’s expression twists into a sneer and Qrow feels exposed, bitter.

Only three more hours to go, and he’ll get to abandon Clover Ebi again.

…maybe flying in Mantle would be better than trying and failing around Atlas. He’ll have to go check it out. He needs to get as far away from Atlas as possible, otherwise he is going to lose his mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Why Ruby has dragged him out here, he does not know. He isn’t happy, though.

The indoor gardens at the central lounge of Atlas Academy are breathtaking, he will admit. He never even knew they existed before that afternoon, for it is tucked away in a corner mostly reserved for parents attending graduation parades for older students. This vast, expansive room provides the one drop of non-agricultural flora upon this desolate island of perfection and white, blank walls; he curses under his breath as he enters the room, pausing for just a moment to take in the humid, temperature-controlled air, so startlingly different from Atlas, yet so familiar. This air feels like _home,_ the scent peaty and vegetal and rich, the taste earthy upon his tongue. Green lingers in his periphery in every direction, gardens both perfectly maintained and yet still growing wild, splashes of colour almost painful to look at after so much time over the past week staring at never-ending snowfields.

All of this should be wonderful to Qrow. He longs to transform into a corvid and settle into the nook of a willow tree sweeping out at the side of this massive green facility; it beckons him, tantalizing with its green arms open, waiting to embrace him.

His heart aches. He misses Patch, and Taiyang, and Zwei. He misses looking at his girls in the sunshine.

He does not follow his heart’s desire, however. Ruby has not brought him here alone; her team accompanies them, and their guide is Clover, who has been assigned to this task by mere chance. Qrow’s luck, as usual. And, just as expected, Qrow feels nothing but distaste bubble up within his gut as he watches the younger man’s nose crinkle in disgust as he is struck by the tepid air. “If you ever find Penny here, you should tell her to leave,” he tells Ruby jovially. “While she was fine in Vale for an extended period of time, the sharp changes in humidity and pressure when she comes in here messes something up in her system. Dr. Polendina’s orders.”

Ruby nods eagerly, her chuckles ringing through the air, intertwining with what must be the humming of an artificial stream hidden somewhere within the foliage. Qrow’s fingers twitch, itching to pat his niece’s hair and wish her well, then disappear into the trees.

He just wants to extend his wings. The air is fairly still and serene here, only circulated by the fans situated around the room. He would be able to relax at last.

Yet, he chooses not to. Clover does not know of his powers, and he has no intention of revealing that to the younger man unless he absolutely has to. He can already imagine the snide comments Clover might toss his way- always underhanded, always passive aggressive, always said with just enough of a curve to his lips that anyone watching would continue to feel comfortable with their proud leader of the Ace Operatives.

Clover notices how antsy he is, much to his chagrin. “Need something, partner?” he asks, the perfect image of a concerned comrade. His concern does not reach his eyes, however, green glinting just as coldly as the Atlesian air outside of this sanctuary.

Qrow shivers at the mere sight of it, grimacing. “No. Thanks for the tour, boy scout, but I’ve gotta head.”

Clover splutters, his calm façade falling instantly as he replies, “Excuse me, _‘boy scout’-?_ “

The girls of Team RWBY giggle and leap onto that nickname as Qrow turns on his heel, shoving his hands into his pockets and walking out of the indoor gardens. The interior of Atlas Academy instantly sends him reeling, gooseflesh rising upon his bare forearms, hair standing tall upon the back of his neck. He hates this cold- he longs to dive back into the garden, into his new sanctuary.

Not while Clover’s in there, though. He’s already made himself look like a mess far too many times in front of the younger over the past week thanks to his Semblance, and he’s a little sick of seeing that amusement turn into vague mockery at a moment’s notice. So, he bites his lip, making a mental note of when the room is open each day; he shall return there soon to indulge in some well-deserved peace and quiet, far away from broad shoulders and judgemental gazes. The only green he needs around him is nature, not Clover’s guarded eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going for 1 chapter a day and it's working thus far, pray for me to be able to keep it up even when my brain decides to write 700 words more than my self-imposed limit

He is so close to actually enjoying his night. He is so, _so close._

The moment dinner is done and the children are looked after, Ruby and Yang promising to behave themselves now that their tour of the academy has finally been completed, Qrow bids them all goodnight and runs off. He has a goal, after all- one singular destination which has been lingering in the back of his mind since earlier that day. He could not forget it even if he tried.

So, in the darkness of night, he creeps his way along through unused halls far from the Huntsmen’s barracks. His steps are light, Aura suppressed despite the amount of effort it takes to maintain such a state, but he is willing to put in the energy and concentration, for he refuses to be interrupted. He just needs a _break._

This week has been horrendous, after all. He does not want to think about how many times he has stumbled into briefings late, his headaches intensifying day by day as the alcohol leaves his system; he does not want to reflect on how many times his luck almost cost him his life upon the battlefield due to his distraction, for every bone in his body aches and Ruby and Yang are Huntresses and they’re fighting on their own and _what if they_ _don’t come home-_

He is exhausted, and emotional, and bitter, and he is far too weary of feeling too tired to even blink away his fatigue. He just… he needs peace.

So, he enters the indoor garden, leaving the door open a crack in case he must make a quick getaway. It is well after hours, but he does not know how much security they have installed in such a precocious garden sanctuary, so he errs on the side of caution.

In the near-darkness, he can see a few lamps which linger on, dim and faint so as to illuminate just enough of the paths to protect the tranquility of the room. Still, it is enough for him; it does not even take him a heartbeat to transform into a corvid, using the air current upon a heat vent to soar upwards, finding a foothold upon a high-up branch. The air is crisper now, cooler, less humid; he takes in a deep breath, feeling his fluttering heartbeat embrace the cool air eagerly. This is where he belongs- not the tundra, not the aristocracy, not the uptight-poles-up-their-asses Atlesian military. He belongs in greenery, in Patch.

He peers out into the massive gymnasium-sized area, taking in this beautiful spot with relish, relaxing as the sounds of the artificial stream bubbling through the room echo through his ears. His eyes adjust to the darkness at last, beginning to make out the shapes within properly; he eagerly takes in the view of the outlines of trees, of bushes covered in breathtaking flowers, of stone and grass and weeds all harmoniously revitalizing him, the tall ceiling covered in vines and… _stars?_

He blinks once, twice. His heartrate begins to rise, for his eyes are not built in this form to look out into the darkness, and this feels like a dirty trick- and yet, there is no lie in the air. There are millions of little lights covering each branch and leaf and petal, all the way up to the rafters.

It knocks him off-balance, but what stuns him even further is the fact that suddenly, they all _move._

He longs to caw, to trill, to cluck and sound out what is going on, for his brain has slowed down to fixate on only one thing: the movement. He holds his voice back, however, silently leaping from his perch to another one illuminated faintly by the few lamps which remain hanging from the high ceiling.

Once he moves in closer from the edge of the room, however, he sees what the lights truly are. They are fireflies, the tiny creatures glowing with a soft bioluminescence that is genuinely breathtaking in the darkness.

Idly, he wonders how they taste. It has been a long, long time since he’s eaten as a corvid. His appetite has been failing lately- should he-

Those thoughts are interrupted immediately, however, as another flurry of lightning bugs rush into the skies, a movement below sending them haphazardly across the room. Qrow hops to another branch, then to another, sticking to the strong bases closer to the trunks to avoid rustling any leaves; through the shrouded canopies of his perch, he peers down, his heart racing. Who could possibly be here?

Suddenly, a voice murmurs, “I don’t remember birds being here.”

Through the leaves, he spots a familiar, yet unsettlingly fresh smile. It is far different from what he is used to seeing; Clover Ebi looks genuine, open, as he looks up at the canopy of leaves upon him. He sits upon a grassy knoll by the artificial stream, dressed in civilian attire that makes him look years younger. Qrow’s eyes fixate on the curiosity and joy sparking in his eyes, so pure without any of the rude overconfidence which Qrow has grown so used to seeing.

Clover looks like the Ace Operative that everyone else believes him to be.

It’s startling, the realization of just how hated Qrow is simply due to _existing._

And just like that, Qrow’s evening is soured. He wanted to have some time for himself. Clover Ebi is the exact opposite of what he needs in his life.

Amidst a million little pinpricks of light, he takes off, powerful wings steering directly to the opened exit. The buffet of his wings knocks away fireflies from his path, tiny neon green bodies spiraling through the air, causing vortices off his wingtips of golden-green light.

He hates how much those lights reflect perfectly off of wide, amazed, brilliant jade irises below him.

What he hates more, however, is how his mind automatically hones in upon Clover’s face, even in the darkness; his crimson eyes lock onto the younger, and for the one moment before he barrels out the door of the indoor garden, he cannot help but note that the younger is handsome like this; light illuminating his face, a sense of wonder erasing the lines and the cockiness and the passive aggression.

 _Of course he’s handsome,_ Qrow tells himself bitterly as he transforms back into a human right before the security cameras capture him flying through the halls. _Lucky him._

He wishes it didn’t affect him as much as it does. Rather than the breathtaking sight of the fireflies, it is the memory of Clover’s awestruck face which haunts him for the rest of the evening.


	6. Chapter 6

In his mind, all he can see are leaves of green, glittering underneath vast blue skies; they sway and jostle against one another in the light breeze, so soothing and gentle to the eye, so familiar that he wants to sink into the grass beneath his feet and become one with the earth, where he has always belonged.

Qrow adores it- this nature, this tranquility. He may have spent the majority of his life in the city or on the battlefield, but the warmth which surges throughout his soul whenever he sees landscapes so full of viridian hues is indescribably, for green shall always mean Patch which shall always mean _home_. He runs his fingers along spiny edges and textured bark, smiling peacefully as the feathery sensation comes through even with his callused fingers, filling him with the strangest sense of contentedness.

This is peace, he decides, looking up into the brilliant canopy above, squinting against sunlight filtering through the gaps between the leaves. This is peace.

And then, he feels a touch on his shoulder, so light that it feels like the caress of the wind, nothing more; he swivels, smile placid and comfortable, ready to find an old friend, perhaps family, awaiting him. Or, at the very least, it will have been naught but the brush of a tree branch, a shrub, a flowering plant which may give him the scent of flora and life.

Perhaps he shall find roses. He would like that.

However, as his eyes focus upon tan skin and wrinkles lining deep-set eyes, he is struck by shimmering emerald which catches the light, reflected in the hope and joy and curiosity in thin, quirked lips and straight teeth, an honesty within a cleanly shaved face.

Instantly, his joy is gone, his eyes open, and he is back in his bed.

_He’s haunting my dreams now, too._

There is little Qrow can say to deny the fact that he feels unbearably vulnerable when he thinks about Clover Ebi. The fact that he had been almost caught the night before in the gardens fills his heart up with such fear that he does not know how to move, the mere idea of Clover catching sight of his heels fleeing the gardens enough to chill him to the bone. His transformation is not something he likes to advertise even to allies, and Clover is a far cry from what he would consider a true comrade.

He almost snorts when he thinks of how hopeful James is to have their sides cooperate. Qrow shall do it, yes, but why would he ever consider Clover a friend?

_How can I be friends with someone who’s always had everything?_

He does not understand Clover Ebi, and that is that.

These sentiments of bitter frustration linger deep within him until he reaches the briefing room that morning. With affection, he ruffles Ruby’s hair and straightens out Yang’s, patting a weary Ren on the shoulder and raising a brow at Nora’s enthusiasm. He makes his way through the children like this, finally pausing by Oscar to murmur a quiet greeting, a quiet check-in; the young man’s eyes soften, gratitude filling his otherwise weary smile. “I’m holding up,” he laughs dryly to Qrow’s concern.

“Me too, kid,” Qrow breathes, patting him on the shoulder awkwardly. “Me too.”

He wishes he could say more. He can’t, though- not to Oscar. Every time he looks at the child, all he can see is the bruise that had blossomed upon his face when he had punched the young man, and it breaks his heart to think that Qrow had been responsible for shattering something within a _child_.

But that guilt shall have to haunt him another time, for Qrow’s eyes land upon something which steals his very breath away as Clover walks into the room, ready to begin the briefing. It is not Clover himself- all his presence ever elicits from Qrow is discomfort, after all- but the object which hangs from his belt, cored delicately by a thin, embossed chain, looped onto the same hook which holds the brunet’s lucky rabbit’s foot. Qrow knows this new addition.

It is- was- a part of him.

Before Clover steps up to the front of the room to speak, he catches Qrow’s wandering eyes, a cocky grin growing upon his face. “There aren’t exactly many birds in Atlas, especially not darker ones- not if they want to blend into the snow,” he says quietly, holding up the long, sleek black feather which hangs from his belt.

Qrow immediately casts a glare towards the children, refusing to respond to the other man. To his surprise, all of them are watching the interaction, wide-eyed and baffled. Their young faces all demand the same question: “Why not just tell him that that feather is _yours_?”

He shakes his head. _Don’t._

The rookies trade looks, unease and uncertainty growing upon their faces. However, Ruby stands up for just a moment, feigning a stretch to the ceiling; she nods somberly towards Qrow as she sits back down, cold, resolute loyalty in her eyes. The others watch this movement and nod as well before returning to their idle chatter.

Clover does not notice the tiny acts of solidarity from Qrow’s fledgling Huntsmen and Huntresses, too focused upon the feather which spans across the length of his hand. “I found this little gem outside the gardens yesterday. It’s beautiful, huh?”

There is no joy in his eyes as Qrow smiles, thin and wan and humourless. “Sure is, kiddo,” he mutters before storming over to the coffee machine at the back of the room. Without restraint, he changes the filter and refills it, setting it to brew. It shall be disruptive during the missions assignment, he knows- however, the dimmed lights and the battle between Clover’s voice and the puttering of the coffee machine will be more than enough to distract everyone’s attention from the fact that Qrow’s cheeks burn in embarrassment, for no one has ever called his feathers _beautiful_ before, and he cannot stand just how giddy the words make him, even if they come from Clover Ebi.


	7. Chapter 7

Qrow does not hesitate to turn his entire body away from Clover during the airship ride down to Mantle. Clover does not even react to Qrow’s silent rejection, even taking the initiative to sit on the opposite end of the ship as they fly down to their drop-off point. Qrow cannot help but look away, though; it grows more and more unsettling to see the long, black feather hanging upon Clover’s hip, so out-of-place next to stark white slacks straining against built thighs. It is the black spot, the stain, upon the Atlesian uniform.

There is something so profoundly gutting about realizing that even little pieces of him will never look good here in Atlas.

…he wants to leave. This isn’t the place for him.

It is their turn to do a patrol shift of Mantle’s wall, and the banality of it all is simultaneously joyous and horrifying. Qrow’s initial ecstasy is easy enough to understand, for a task as simple as guarding the borders which protect the citizens from Grimm invasion does not require conversation between himself and Clover. However, thirty minutes into the silence, he begins to realize just how painful the monotony can be. A part of him debates on whether he should pull out his Scroll, turn on the local radio station- anything to fill the silence, really- but he has a distinct feeling that Clover would not be a fan of that clear distraction, so he stays his hand, irritation growing by the second thanks to the silence only broken by the distant sounds of the city below.

Finally, Clover mutters, “So, anything new to report?”

Qrow almost cackles at his pathetic attempt to connect, for when he turns to look at Clover, the other man does not even bother looking at him, his expression just as bored as he sounds. There is no genuine desire to listen there- merely the need to fill empty air, to no longer be completely silent as green eyes scan the horizon, sigh, then continue moving forward.

Clover has barred his heart just as Qrow has.

Qrow spots a flash of black out of the corner of his eye. Wordlessly, he pulls out Harbinger and raises the barrel, aiming at the three Grimm which have crested a distant hill and are rushing towards the city. It is too far away to even tell what they are, for their masks and markings are naught but white blurs which blend into the tundra; however, their exposed, rancid flesh provides a solid enough target for Qrow, allowing him to fire off three shots in quick succession.

All three Grimm halt in their tracks. Qrow does not need to hear their cries of pain to realize that he has destroyed them, for a plume of Grimm dust begins to rise into the sky from their stilled bodies.

“Hm.” Clover strides ahead, one hand upon Kingfisher’s grip. “Lucky shot.”

“Ain’t nothing lucky about it,” Qrow growls in response.

Immediately, Clover’s lopsided, yet unfeeling smirk sours, corners of his mouth twisting downwards. It is the first real emotion which Qrow has been able to see in his face the entire patrol, a sense of real irritation and bitterness emanating from the younger as he tilts his chin upwards, staring down at Qrow over his broad, straight nose. “Fair enough,” Clover says icily, gesturing the elder onwards. “Let’s keep going.”

“Let’s.”

Neither man says aloud what they both are thinking- that had Clover not been there, Qrow may not have noticed those Grimm, or that his shots may not have landed- or maybe they would have, and Qrow would have been able to take them down without difficulty. They both know that Clover would not be able to say the same.

Or, perhaps if it had just been Clover, no Grimm would have come to attack the city to begin with. There is no way to truly know.

The silence is stifling. The only thing that continues to break it is the sounds of Mantle below and the ringing out of gunshots every time Qrow spots any other shadows upon the horizon. He cannot help but smile each and every time, for the look of weary dissatisfaction upon Clover’s face almost makes the discomfort from the quietude worth it.

Almost.


	8. Chapter 8

“Is…” Ruby’s voice trails off, eyes glancing downwards, a worried twist to her lips.

Qrow elbows her playfully, softly replying, “What’s up, kiddo?”

She sighs. “Did something happen between you and Clover?”

He freezes, sighs, and shakes his head. “No, why?” he lies, pasting on a strained smile.

“Because you’re acting weird,” Yang says bluntly.

“Yeah,” Nora chimes in, “you’ve been acting like he’s… like he’s not to be trusted or something.”

Qrow stiffens, shoulders locking. He scans the room, finding expressions from mildly curious to deeply troubled, their stances all on edge, eyes speaking the same silent words simultaneously.

_If you tell us not to trust him, we won’t._

He takes in a deep breath, then lets it out slowly, feeling his shoulders relax bit by bit, his headache pounding all the more fervently. They are right to be wary of anyone and everyone in Atlas, especially after Ruby’s decision to hide the truth about Salem and Jinn from James; however, his own personal issues aside, Clover has truly yet to show any indication that he is not to be trusted.

Whether that means Clover will guard his back should anything happen, Qrow does not know. For now, however, he knows that they are fighting the same enemy, and that is enough.

…it does not mean that Qrow needs to like him.

“For now, he’s safe,” Qrow says quietly. “We need to work together, kids. Don’t forget that. Salem wants to divide us.”

Their faces pale, their nods, slow and knowing. They understand. They cannot afford to allow a chasm to form between them all- not after they’ve seen the demon haunting their footsteps.

_So what- I should just suck it up?_

He knows the answer is ‘yes’. He also knows he cannot do that. Is it embarrassing? Yes- he feels as if he has been transported back to his first few years in Beacon with the amount of bitterness he tastes whenever he sees Clover, for back then he had been far angrier, far more hurt by anything and everything- and yet, he cannot put his baseless frustrations aside. He is jealous of Clover’s ease. He has not felt the kind of confidence and pride which Clover always displays for far too long; the mere thought of it causes his head to ache, for he is sick of seeing Clover’s overly-confident smirk on the field when Qrow has proven to be the better Huntsman time and time again.

These thoughts linger in Qrow’s mind all the way until their next mission- a stakeout. The goal to find a Grimm nest goes a little too well, leaving them both surrounded by Teryxes before they can call for backup. As the battle commences, however, he realizes that he should not be on the battlefield that day. Each movement feels sluggish, his head spinning as the battle draws on, for he is both dehydrated and nauseous and nothing he has eaten that day is settling in his body when all his brain craves is the same old depressant which he has been avoiding.

 _My damned luck,_ Qrow thinks as he slices through another beast, jumping away from its corpse before the noxious fumes can enter his nose. A quick leap backwards is more than enough to clear the area, a shifting from a sword to a scythe allowing him to reap his blade straight through the bases of spindly wings of another monster like stalks of wheat in the field; the felled beast screams, guttural and raw and horrifying in its candor, and all Qrow can do is wince as the sound drives itself right through the center of his skull.

Through his distraction, however, he does not realize the approach of yet another Grimm from the side until it is too late. He tenses pre-emptively, his body unable to react in time; he is still too weary, too broken, to move away.

To his surprise, the swipe of claws is blocked by a sturdy silhouette and a long, thin metal rod. Clover grits his teeth as he glances over his shoulder and spits, “Keep focused!”

Qrow grimaces and totters back to his feet, then throws himself back into the fray.

Once the monsters are cleared- thankfully, with the help of a few of their backup Huntsmen who had arrived on the scene just in time- Qrow and Clover are left to fill in the reports. They both silently open up their Scrolls, preparing to at least begin them on the journey back. It isn’t like they have anything else to do in the daunting silence which always separates them on the trips back to the academy.

Today, however, it seems that Clover has something to say. “What, no ‘thank you’?”

Qrow raises a brow, glancing up from the form he is filling out. “For what?”

“For that save. You would’ve been injured pretty badly if I hadn’t caught that blow for you.”

Rolling his eyes, Qrow quips, “Look, boy scout, I would’ve been able to take it just fine.”

Clover looks up at last, staring deadpan at him. “With _your_ Aura?”

Frowning, Qrow quickly opens up his Aura gauge. A lance of cold, unfiltered discomfort stabs through his heart as he sees his Aura hovering dangerously above the red. “What…?” he breathes, baffled. “I- I barely took any hits though-“

“I don’t know what the hell is going on with you,” Clover says tightly, “but your Aura’s been down to nothing since this morning. Either rest, or I’ll remove you from the roster.”

Before he can stop himself, Qrow puts down his Scroll, raising his chin in challenge. “You think I’m _scared_ of your _orders_?” Clover opens his mouth to respond, but Qrow’s eyes fall upon Clover’s hand. It rests upon his hip- upon Qrow’s fallen feather, still hanging so innocuously upon the same chain as Clover’s lucky rabbit’s foot. He cuts Clover off and adds, “I’ve said it to Jimmy and I’ll say it again- if I was one of your men, I’d shoot myself.”

Clover’s eyes snap wide open, expression twisting into an annoyed snarl. “Why are you complaining?” he whispers after a moment. “What is the _problem_ , Qrow?” Shaking his head in annoyance, he says under his breath, “You’d think you’d be happy to have someone cleaning up after you with that Semblance of yours-“

The pilot announces over the speakers that they are landing, and within a breath, the airship settles down upon the ground. It is a good thing, too; Qrow does not feel like going to an Atlesian prison for attacking one of their senior officers, even if Clover deserves it- even though every bone in his body is screaming out to strike at this younger man who has _no idea_ what he is going through.

He does not allow the frustrated tears which well up into his eyes to spill until he is back in his quarters. He knows he is a liability, but Clover does not get to see that weakness. Not today.


	9. Chapter 9

That day- that interaction- is the trigger, and Clover Ebi is never the same.

The hostility which had been vaguely contained within their interactions becomes outright. Clover Ebi truly is one of James’ men, Qrow realizes; the officer is truly the model Atlesian soldier, knowing exactly how to use his glib tongue to portray the image of the benevolent-but-upright officer-in-command of the Ace Operatives. He is able to where his smiles like the best of the Atlesian aristocrats while still maintaining that sense of simple, honest trustworthiness that only a true, loyal soldier can exemplify.

And then, when he and Qrow are alone, he allows all of that to slip away, and Qrow can only snarl in response.

They no longer share words if they are not seen together. There are no more attempts to engage, even when there is information to share; Clover has grown almost frighteningly-fast at forwarding orders and messages he receives on his Scroll to Qrow. The separation between them grows wider and wider, and no one else is the wiser.

 _It’s better this way,_ Qrow tells himself. What is the point of dealing with Clover if he clearly already thinks of Qrow’s Semblance as a mistake? _As if I don’t already know that, asshole._

On yet another patrol, the silence has grown palpable between them. Qrow does his best to keep his eyes straight ahead, but Clover insists on walking ahead of him, causing crimson to fall unwittingly upon a swinging rabbit’s foot and black feather over and over again. Eventually, the irritation which rises up in his gut is too much, and Qrow begins to simply look out into the distance. It is easier to look into the endless expanse of tundra, the white melding with the blinding horizon almost painfully, than to watch how Clover walks as if there is nothing to fear.

Qrow cannot relate to this sentiment. It is not the Grimm he fears. His head aches. He knows why his Aura has been so low as of late, for his energy is consumed by fighting off withdrawal and sleeplessness and heartache.

He just wants to be at _peace._

The distant blip on the horizon grows larger and larger with every breath, and soon, Qrow’s blade is not enough to strike them all down. His aim is deadly and true, as always, but there are simply too many Grimm to keep up before they are upon the battleground once again. “Well shit,” Qrow mutters as the pack of Sabyrs approaches the wall with such speed that he has no choice but to extend the blade itself.

“Finally get to fight,” Clover says, pulling Kingfisher out of its holster.

With as scathing a glare as he can manage, Qrow spits, “I swear, if you say ‘it’s my lucky day’ or some shit-“

The heat in Clover’s eyes reflects Qrow’s, his irritation and disdain clear as day. “I’d stop there if I were you,” he says, voice strained with anger.

“And why should I?”

Clover steps past him, readying to leap downwards into the fray. “You’ve got a lot of confidence for a liability,” he says.

“Says the person who has, up to now, killed absolutely zero Grimm. Why do they put you on patrols if your weapon isn’t useful?”

Clover’s lips curl back into a grimace, but they have no more time to engage, and for that, Qrow is thankful. He takes the beasts which attack from the west. Clover takes those sieging the southern side. Separately, they cull the herd with little problem.

And yet, when they return to the academy, their glowers are so pronounced that even Penny is prompted to ask, “Did something happen on your mission?”

“No,” they both say immediately, striding past her.

They have reports to write, but before Clover can try and issue an order, Qrow announces, “I’ll send you my parts. You can log it in.”

“I’ll do no-“

“See ya.” With that, Qrow turns on his heel, shoves his hands into his pockets, and marches down the corridor, leaving Clover behind.

He does not head directly to his barracks, instead heading out onto the nearest balcony he can find upon the upper floors of Atlas. The moment the fresh air hits his cheeks, he relaxes; the briskness of the wind against his face is refreshing, welcoming. He takes in a deep breath, then lets it out, his breath forming a steady stream of steam into the air in front of him.

 _I’ll write your reports,_ he thinks, pulling out his Scroll and taking a seat against a windowsill nearby. _And then I’ll go there again._

So, he does. The reports are finished soon enough and sent to Clover, attached to a wordless email. He will figure it out; he’s good a paper pushing, after all. Once that is finished and the sun has begun to set, Qrow’s heart feels a little lighter, for he can finally return to the indoor garden. He needs to be in nature, somewhere warm and away from Atlas’ endless white expanse. _And if Clover comes back, it’ll only be later,_ he thinks gleefully. He knows there is a meeting planned for later that evening for the Ace Operatives; Qrow should have more than enough time to enjoy the greenery without interruption.

The fireflies welcome his entry, flitting up to him before he can find a hidden nook in which to rest. He thinks for a moment on eating one- would that send them away from him?- but when he sees the tiny abdomen of one bug glow gently as it almost floats past his eyes, he lets them be, hunkering down upon his perch and relishing in the sound of circulated air rushing through the canopy of leaves which surrounds him.

It feels like home- not exactly the same, but the scent of bark and leaves and grass and flora is so comforting he could weep. His eyelids sink down, body relaxing, melting into the tiny nook in this low tree that he has commandeered as his own. Soon, the glow of lightning bugs no longer bothers him, their flickering forms merely acting as dancing starlight as the lights within the room shut completely off for the night.

He does not realize when exactly he drifts off, but he awakens in a fright; the presence of another’s Aura near to him is horrifying, for he is not one to let his guard down like this.

It is with a mix of horror and relief that the face he sees peering up at him is Clover. There are no words needed to understand the sheer wonder painted across Clover’s joyous face; despite the clear lines of strain and fatigue in his brow, he looks at the bird as if he has caught sight of one of the wonders of the world, his fingers playing across the feather hanging from his hip as if it is the most natural of rituals.

Qrow swallows, freezing in place. What should he do? From his perch, he can see the door; it is closed, offering him no real escape route unless he transforms back into a man. However, that would mean exposing himself to Clover-

 _No way in hell,_ he tell himself, _am I going to let him find this out._

So, he does the only other thing he can do. He plays his part.

Softly, he trills, startling the bugs which drift lazily on gentle, warm air currents. Immediately, Clover’s eyes widen, his face relaxing, removing years of burden off his visage. “They’ve really started introducing wildlife here,” he murmurs gently, his voice softer than Qrow has ever heard it. “But why a _crow,_ of all things?”

Immediately, Qrow bristles. He knows he is but an omen, a sign of bad luck, but to be referred to as such even when trying to _rest_ is-

“You’re beautiful,” Clover murmurs, eyes creasing so happily that Qrow’s chest aches.

Qrow squawks. His song is not, in fact, beautiful. The sound only seems to delight Clover, though, for the man holds out a hand in offering. Qrow does not go to him- it’ll be a warm day in Atlas when he’ll ever perch upon Clover Ebi’s hand- but even when he moves to peck the younger, Clover is not fazed, the man simply taking a seat at the base of the tree in which Qrow perches. Then, he closes his eyes, clasps his hands across his chest, and leans back against the trunk, utterly contented.

Qrow watches it all with unease roiling around in his stomach, adrenaline pumping through his veins, making his avian heart pound painfully against his ribcage. _If only you knew,_ he thinks bitterly. _Would you still look so happy?_

He already knows the answer. For some reason, the thought of it makes his chest ache all the more.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a short chapter. Also, if any of you are fans of the game "Hades", guess who's started writing fic for it? I've got two oneshots up, more on the way, and am excited to write more!

“You really like that feather, huh?”

As if it is a secret between himself and the crow he believes to have made friends with, Clover grins, a haughty glint in his eyes as he brushes the feather happily. “Don’t worry about it.”

Qrow’s lip curls into a sneer, but he does not continue the conversation. There is no point even trying to talk to the younger about this, after all. Clover likely believes his discovery of the corvid in the indoor gardens to be something magical, something special; unless if Qrow decides to reveal himself to the younger, there will be no way to convince Clover otherwise of the mediocrity of the feather he has grown to apparently cherish so deeply.

So, he turns his eyes outside the supply truck, leaning his head on the window. The lines on the road reflect the sunlight, short pieces of white paint on dark tarmac rhythmically rushing past their truck over and over and over again until he is dizzy. Bile rises into his throat- perhaps it is the movement. Perhaps it is his thirst, never to be sated. Perhaps it is the fact that he can see Clover’s fingers brushing against the feather repeatedly, as if it is the most soothing thing in the world.

The sky is cloudless, vast expanses of blue stretching far overhead. There are no birds in the sky, either. Solitas is not the place for birds to fly freely. He wishes it wasn’t so, but such is his luck.

He only throws up once they have arrived at their destination- only once he is outside of the truck, thankfully. For that, he is grateful. Clover eyes him in disgust as he walks past the steaming pile of stomach acid and bile resting in the snow, on his way to speak to those who will unload their cargo. Qrow wants to snarl at him, but he is too weary, too bitter, for the black, silken feather still hangs upon Clover’s hip, but Qrow is left behind yet again.


	11. Chapter 11

The headaches refuse to cease. And yet, even Qrow has to admit that despite all of his heartache and bitterness, he is getting _better_.

It has been almost two weeks since his last drink. Two weeks, and he has fought off the urge every single night- every single voice in his head which screams, begs, _pleads_ for him to just give in has been silenced, whether through sleep or meditation or training or simply by living as a corvid. There are days when the moment he is out of sight, he simply transforms and burrows himself in under his bedsheets, for there is no way a crow can gain access to liquor no matter how much he longs for it.

No matter how he avoids alcohol, however, it does not take away from the fact that he is _doing_ it at all. That is something to be proud of, he knows it.

…if only he could feel proud of it, too. Perhaps it is the lack of benchmarks to go off of which is making him feel so despondent on top of everything else happening amidst their race to finish building Amity. He has no idea how to calculate his journey on the road to success without an idea of what ‘success’ even looks like- will he just one day no longer feel ill all the time? Will he wake up and be magically better?

Is there even such a thing as _not wanting to drink?_

He wishes to go to the garden. At least there, the fireflies are beautiful and the world is tranquil, the circulation of air blowing through the leaves close enough to the sound of wind rustling through the canopies of the forests of Mistral, of Vale, of Patch. The tiny piece of greenery in which he can surround himself is utterly tantalizing, for the mere ability to breathe in that warmer, humid air would give him strength to stay sober another day. After all, Atlas is too cold. Whiskey was always good at warming him up- he needs something to replace that warmth before he loses his mind.

Despite his desires, he dares not risk going to the indoor garden, though- the thought of having to endure more of Clover’s curious eye, more of his _rejection_ right after, cuts him to the core. Why, he does not know for Clover has clearly indicated that Qrow will never be anything but a colleague by happenstance- never an ally, nor friend. Qrow is a liability. Qrow is a hazard. There is no warmth reserved for him.

Qrow cannot even blame him. If he had the choice, he wouldn’t work with himself, either.

 _So how did we get here?_ he thinks in exhaustion, running his hands through his hair as he watches Ruby stir in yet another sugar cube to her coffee. “Ruby, kiddo, you’re going to get sick if you add so much,” he says gently, drawing the box of sugar cubes away from her. “Besides, you’re gonna be bouncing off the walls all night if you add anymore, and you have a supply run starting early tomorrow, right?”

Ruby rolls her eyes, but obeys anyways, stirring her coffee happily. When she finally does take a sip, a slight grimace pulls her lips, but Qrow’s hand rests upon the sugar cubes, barring further access; seeing that, she sighs and takes another drink of her coffee, then places it down to rest upon the table, wrapping her thin hands around the mug calmly. She opens her mouth, raises a brow, and waits for him to respond.

So, he does, giving her a small nod.

Her expression melts happily into a smile as she launches into a recounting of her recent adventures. This is a habit they have fallen into; Qrow and Ruby find a corner booth in the mess hall in which they can sit and drink coffee or tea or cocoa or whatever Ruby would like, and Ruby fills him in on what has happened whenever he is not with her on a mission. The tales are long and convoluted, filled with endless tangents and even more mistakes.

Qrow does not mind her rambling, nor does he mind the fact that he barely speaks during these little get-togethers. Qrow does not pay much attention to these stories at all, if he is being honest. His purpose is not to know every detail; all he wants is to be distracted for just a little while, and sitting with his niece seems like the best way to do just that.

It also alleviates his guilt, although he will never tell her that. He hates the fact that he has left her alone to suffer so many times. He detests himself more than words can say, for his little niece has gone through hell and back, protecting him more times than he feels like he has truly protected her.

He will never admit this to her. Based on the gentleness of her smile every time she tells him goodnight at the end of their little meetings, however, he has a strong suspicion that she already knows.

Halfway through an excited story about Nora and Jaune’s explorations of Mantle, Ruby seems to run out of steam, her eyes dropping to her mug. Snapping out of his stupor, Qrow says, “Hey, kiddo, what’s up?”

She smiles, shaking her head, withdrawing for a moment as she collects her thoughts. “I just- I’m happy we get to do this, Qrow,” she admits shyly. “I know that I’m not exactly- this isn’t exactly how you’d like to spent your free time-“

“Hey now, I’ll spend time with you any day,” he cuts in quickly. “Just because I’m not corny about it like your dad doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy this, Ruby.”

She is quick to giggle and beam back at him, but her knuckles are still white, wrapped tightly around a mug that has long-since lost its warmth. “I… I’m just happy you’re here,” she says. “It’s like a dream- after everything that happened with- with the Relic, and then at the farm-“

_She really thought I was going to leave her to fight alone._

Instinctively, Qrow cowers, folding within himself at the mere mention of it. He does not want to think about what happened at Brunswick Farms; he does not want to ever have to recall losing himself so thoroughly in alcohol in the middle of a blizzard halfway up northern Anima that he almost allowed Ruby and Yang and _everyone_ to be killed by a pack of Apathy Grimm. It does not matter if it was not his fault- it does not matter if he had been reeling from Ozpin’s betrayal, and if the Apathy had been sucking dry his will to live. None of that matters, for Qrow had still almost let Ruby die, and he will never forget that.

She can read him far too easily these days, though. _Maybe drunk me was a better liar,_ he thinks bitterly as he watches her expression morph into pure empathy. “Don’t worry, Uncle Qrow,” Ruby says gently, reaching out and grabbing his hands. Her hands folded over his are so small, yet reassuring, wrapped around his own; the strength exuded from every pore of her visage demonstrates nothing but pure faith. “We all put what happened at the farm behind us. Those Grimm were a huge part of it, too. And,” she adds, squeezing even more tightly, “I’m proud of you. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, but in Atlas, you’ve been doing so well, it’s amazing.”

He wants to cry, for not only does he feel like nothing but a liar in the face of her absolute, unwavering trust, but he also can see nothing, hear nothing, _feel_ nothing other than the presence of Summer Rose so unmistakeably engrained in every fiber of her daughter’s being. He feels as if his former leader is the one comforting him, her tone soothing and unmistakeably proud, all traces of her usual exuberance replaced by the sage calm of someone who knows nothing but faith.

Her Scroll beeps before he crumbles completely, helping him save face. “Yang’s starting the movie soon,” she says, quickly scooting out of the booth. “You wanna join us, Uncle Qrow? The ladies in it all have-” and she cringes, the words sour and embarrassing to even say, “-women in mini-skirts.”

He shakes his head, already feeling colder without her immediately across the table from him. “You go have fun, kiddo,” he chides, “but make sure you go to bed early, okay?”

Something in her face falls. Two years earlier, he would have eagerly joined, making terrible jokes and teasing her and Yang all the while. As it is, though, they both know he cannot do that; so, she laughs as heartily as she can while she walks away, waving over her shoulder with a smile on her face that guarantees she’ll be sleep-deprived come morning.

He barely has a moment to collect himself before his jumbled thoughts are cut through so cleanly that he jumps in his seat. “What’s this about a farm?”

Instantly, Qrow straightens up, glaring over to the source of the voice. Clover stands at the entrance to their booth, his eyebrow raised in confusion and silent judgement.

He retreats further away from Clover before he even realizes it, bristling in the man’s presence. “How much did you hear?” he says, voice low and strained.

Clover stares at him for a long moment, evaluating his next move. Finally, he explains, jabbing his thumb to the next booth, “I was in the booth behind you. If you’re so worried about being overheard, then I suggest you keep private conversations somewhere _private._ ” Before Qrow can retort, Clover continues, “I heard something about a farm. Some Grimm. Is there anything we should know about?”

“Back on Anima,” he growls back, bringing his gaze back down to look at his crumpled napkin. “It’s not any of your business.”

“Certainly didn’t _sound_ like you’ve let it go, whatever it is,” the younger comments dryly.

He snarls back before he can help himself. “Keep your nose out of it, Ebi. I’m not one of your men- I don’t report to you.”

“You’re right,” Clover replies icily, turning his back onto Qrow. “If you were one of my men, you wouldn’t have the audacity to talk back like that.”

“Sorry that I have more spine than your subordinates,” he mutters under his breath, eyes dropping to his hands still curled on the table, missing Ruby’s unconditionally-loving presence. “Pity they don’t make them like they used to.”

Clover’s smile is professional as always, but the heat in his glare is enough to burn. However, that expression quickly morphs into something akin to worry- almost reaching the level of _discomfort-_ as he realizes that Qrow’s energy has drained away completely, his emotions already too much in a haze after Ruby’s mention of his fall on Anima.

He does not want to think of the time he spent crumbling during their journey to Atlas. He does not need anything else to remind him that he is weak.

Clover seems to understand that this is not the day to bother him, thankfully. When Qrow finally looks back up, Clover is already gone to return his dinner tray to the kitchen staff, and Qrow is alone. It is better that way; the moment his emotions sort themselves out, Qrow finds that all he can focus upon is his bitter, ashamed frustration, and he does not need Clover Ebi watching him cry, too.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took far too long to write- for such a short chapter, I've been slogging through it for a couple of days now. It just wasn't gelling for me. Or maybe I'm just too tired these days- definite possibility.

Qrow shifts in his seat, poking at the leafy greens upon his plate. He knows that he needs to brighten up; James has invited him to this dinner to celebrate, not to pout.

How can he smile or engage, however, when Clover has been seated right in front of him?

It is no longer discomfort or anger which Qrow feels when looking at the younger, but _fear._ If Clover finds out what had happened at Brunswick Farms- hell, if _James_ found out through Clover- then would he still be welcome here? Would he still be given a seat at the table, when he had almost allowed the table to crumble to ash before he had even arrived?

He does not trust James. Ruby has always had good instincts, and something in her heart insists that they cannot tell James the truth about Jinn and the lamp; therefore, Qrow will not trust him, either. It’s an easy enough task, for he had only ever worked alongside James thanks to Ozpin’s orders at the end of the day. The two of them have always been like oil and water, only promising pain the more heat they added to the fire. The fact that he has never even tried to fight James openly is only thanks to their former leader.

As it turns out, however, Ozpin was never like Ruby. He’s clearly terrible at picking who to put his faith into, Qrow thinks as he sips his water, grimacing at the flatness of it. Look at Leonardo Lionheart- look at Cinder in her disguise as a student-

Look at Qrow himself. _He never should have trusted me. Fat lot of good I’ve done._

So, Qrow sits there, trying his best to maintain a neutral smile whilst James chatters across the table to the members of the Ace Operatives and the few faculty from Atlas Academy who are helping with logistical management of the Amity Project behind the scenes. The air is lively and bright, words of encouragement and pride flying across salad plates while they wait for the mess hall to finish the next dish.

To his surprise, Clover also does not engage very much with the others. His expression of perfect, personable tranquility rests, just as pristine and poised as ever to the untrained eye; after having spent so much time with him, however, Qrow can tell that something is sincerely, deeply wrong with the younger, his discomfort visible in the slight, quick downward turn of one corner of his mouth, the lack of luster in his eyes, the slightly-hunched shoulders betraying a fatigue that not even Atlesian training can help him hide. What exactly is going on with the younger, though, Qrow does not know.

That is, until the Ace Ops begin discussing their missions.

“I hate to say it, but it’s been a real lifesaver to have the rookies around,” Harriet says frankly, a grateful smile on her face. “Before we were always scraping by on the skin of our teeth- not enough manpower to go around.”

“We were always fine at the end of the day,” Vine replies, cutting into his food with movements so robotic Qrow wonders just how much of him is natural. “We have never failed a mission.”

Elm’s grin would be infectious to anyone other than Qrow. The woman happily says, “Why would we fail? We had Clover on our side, after all.”

“I’m sure you all would’ve been capable of handling it on your own,” Clover retorts smoothly, his mask so pleasant that Qrow feels his own slipping away on instinct.

 _This smug bastard,_ he thinks as the other members refute these words, praising Clover without hesitation; the response is slight, but Qrow can see the way Clover preens, his shoulders straightening out, grin growing just a little more genuine.

And then, Marrow laughs, “And no matter what, if all else fails, we have Clover’s luck, too!”

James laughs heartily, along with the other members of the Ace Ops. The faculty chuckle as well, the air lighthearted and bright as Marrow begins recounting with all the puppy-eyed excitement in the world how their last mission went thanks to their teamwork and Clover’s good luck. More stories spring up, one after another, with each Huntsman at the table always ready to give praise to the leader of the Ace Ops whose Semblance has rendered them practically invulnerable.

Qrow’s fingers tense, the handles of his cutlery cutting into his palms; of _course_ people would praise _Clover,_ of _course_ his luck makes him _so much better_ -

But any semblance of Clover’s joy has fallen away. No longer does he even pretend to smile, his expression as stoic as what they would see on a mission. Qrow has to take in a sharp breath when he sees it, clearing his head of the annoyance and frustration that had been slowly bubbling in his veins. There is no reason to be upset- not when Clover looks as if someone has sucked the soul right out of him. _Hell, he looks more comfortable being with me on missions…_

But _why_ does he look like he has just been told that he has failed his mission?

Suddenly, James turns to Qrow, the general adding jovially, “Speaking of good Huntsman- thank you, Qrow. For everything. No matter what, I’m glad you’re on our side. You’re an excellent Huntsman.” He pauses, then chides, “You know, if you had been this agreeable in Beacon…”

Qrow blinks for a moment, then chuckles, trying to be as natural as possible; however, those words of praise truly sound foreign coming from James’ lips. He quickly tosses back a retort, one which causes James to splutter and the Ace Ops to gawk, the group quickly focusing their attention away from Clover to the older Huntsman at the table. Harriet begins asking about Harbinger, and Marrow asks about his training regime; Elm wants to know how he has managed to maintain his strength despite his lanky frame, and Vine is curious to see how he managed to quell the undeniably-tense emotions of the children during their trip across Anima in order to avoid the Grimm.

Qrow responds to each speaker in kind, giving up on eating his limp salad. The main course is brought out, which he nibbles on with a little more success; his appetite is still sorely lacking, so he is grateful to get the chance to hide his feeble figure by chatting. He rarely gets a chance to speak to the other members of the Ace Ops, after all; after being stuck on missions with Clover almost every day since their arrival, it is refreshing to actually get to know the kinds of people who are training Team RWBY and JNOR. They’re not terrible people at all, and soon, Qrow finds himself actually feeling comfortable with the group gathered together that day.

James smiles, putting down his glass after he finishes his meal. “Qrow… Oz would say we’re doing the right thing, right?”

Qrow freezes, his ease falling apart at the seams. He does not want to think about Ozpin; he has not dedicated any time to his former mentor’s presence since he had promised to Ruby that he would stop drinking, that he would stop drowning his sorrows- that he would stop _needing_ to drown his sorrows. After all, that habit had only kicked in after Ozpin had told him about the war against Salem. He hadn’t known what else to do back then- he hadn’t been able to handle the truth.

 _No, not the truth,_ he thinks wearily, swallowing down emotions which threaten to rise up like vomit. _Oz_ _was just as bad as the rest of us. Never said what mattered most._

With these thoughts swirling around in his mind, his smile is shaky at best, although James does not seem to notice. “Either way, we’ve got to do what we think is right,” Qrow replies noncommittally.

Thankfully, that seems to be enough for James, the general smiling gently before turning towards one of the professors at Atlas. As he does so, Qrow finally looks across the table-

Only to realize with a start that Clover is gone.

The meal is drawing to a close anyways, and people have begun standing as they chatter and pile up their dishes. Qrow quickly drops off what he needs to with the kitchen staff, then makes his way around the edge of the hall, trying to catch a glimpse of brunet hair. Why he is looking for Clover, he does not know- the sinking feeling in his gut cannot be ignored, however.

It is on the veranda at one end of the mess hall that Qrow finally finds Clover at last. The younger’s face is stoic, mouth set in a grim line as he grips the railing tightly, fingers a stark white peeking out from his black, fingerless gloves. Qrow leans against the wall, crossing his arms and watching Clover for a moment; at his lack of a reaction, however, he finally says, “You’re the one who always called me a liability. Why’d the golden boy leave?”

“You _are_ a liability,” Clover says, voice just as deadened as his lightless, glazed stare.

Qrow raising a brow, his discomfort steadily rising. “So what’s your issue? Dinner didn’t sit well with you?”

Clover sighs, hanging his head low beneath his shoulders. Then, he straightens up, sucking in a deep breath as he turns to face Qrow properly again, his expression once again controlled, neutral. “So why doesn’t anyone say anything about it?”

 _What bullshit is he-?_ “Because most people have more tact than to talk about Semblances constantly,” he growls, feeling his own annoyance being replaced slowly but surely by pure anger. “Besides, it doesn’t mean I’m a lesser Huntsman.”

To his surprise, Clover’s mouth twists into a snarl- however, there is no malice there, only fatigue. Defeat. Shame. “Yeah. I guess so.” And with those words curling uncomfortably in Qrow’s ear, Clover leaves the balcony, giving no one in the room a second glance. All Qrow can focus upon as he leaves is the way the brooch on his lapel shines in the lights of campus, the lucky clover and horseshoe glinting green and silver brilliantly, yet seeming just as utterly lifeless as its wearer.

_What’s got him so uptight? Everyone’s giving him more than enough praise tonight-_

And then, he realizes it. Everyone had indeed praised Clover over and over again throughout the night- praised his _Semblance,_ that is. Qrow leans forward onto the railing, head hanging low as he tries to recall every single thing said about Clover that entire evening.

Not a single compliment had been directed towards Clover Ebi as a human being- as a Huntsman. Everything had focused solely upon his Semblance. _That’s…_

His stomach roils in his gut at the mere thought of it, and for the first time, he almost feels empathy for Clover; for the first time, he understands why Clover refuses to look at Qrow as anything but a bad luck charm, if Clover will never be anything but the pin on his lapel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in joining a teeny general fandom Discord server, let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you think!


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